Little Red
by MammaWeasley27
Summary: Blaise has always had a preoccupation with the blood traitor, Ginny Weasley, and now that she is single again, he plans to gobble her up while he can. Written for the Slytherin Cabal's Death By Quill Challenge. OS, Complete


It was _his_ time now: Potter had finally fucked up bad enough that she had broken off the engagement; left him at the altar, actually. Rumor had it she was tucked away in a hut somewhere down the beach. He was going to make her his if it killed him, which is why as soon as he'd heard, he'd Floo'd his way to Fiji. He had to admit, she certainly knew where to honeymoon.

Ginny Weasley, his fiery little minx. The girl he'd obsessed over for years, to the exclusion of all else. He'd had a crush on her in school, but she was the "wrong sort" according to those within his circle of peers, so he had left well enough alone. Tensions were high at that time in his life, and he refused to publicly align himself to either side by tipping his hand through a false move or hasty decision, which meant no dating the blood traitor, and no becoming a Death Eater; a perfect neutral. Or possibly chaotic neutral, but who could tell?

But those days were done, thank Merlin. Had been for years. Unfortunately, when the smoke cleared after the war - literally and figuratively - she'd been with Potter, so he'd been forced to continue to keep his distance, bide his time.

He waited for years in the shadows of her life, always on the fringe. He actively followed the gossip columns - at least those concerning her - and paid off informants who were better at not being noticed than he was. Slippery little snake that he was, he'd always held the ability to draw eyes everywhere he went, and for a delicate situation like this, he needed anonymity. It wouldn't do to be called out as a stalker or to be investigated by the aurors, especially when it was Potter's girl he was following so avidly.

His place in society may not have slipped as much as the likes of the Malfoys or the Parkinsons, but slip it had. He and his mother were investigated after the war just like most others within their social bracket. The Order and the Ministry had wanted to be sure there wouldn't be a resurgence of the old ideals after they'd finally gotten a handle on the Riddle Problem, as everyone called it, and frankly, he didn't blame them. Pureblood mania was much like a hydra of legend - cut off one head and two more would appear in its place. The Ministry and aurors had been busy the last few years, working together with Ministries from around the globe to track down fanatics and radicals who had it in their heads to pick up where Tom Riddle and his followers had left off. Which is how he and his mother had come to be investigated in the first place. The Ministry would have been remiss if they had left even a single stone unturned, so he could hardly fault them for turning his various manors and estates upside down and inside out while the searched for any incriminating evidence. He hadn't even minded when they tracked down his errant mother and her new plaything to a villa somewhere off the coast of Italy, mid-coitus. It had stayed out of the papers, for which he was grateful, but that hadn't appeased his mother. He had received two Howler's worth of exactly why he was a horrible, disgraceful son for not avenging her dignity, and how far he must have fallen to let the values she had impressed upon him tumble to the wayside. He hadn't even bothered to remind her that she had done none of the impressing, rather their house-elf, Rolly, had. He knew her anger would ebb, given enough time, so he was content to ride out the storm. Besides, he had been busy preparing himself for the onslaught of aurors by removing all evidence of his obsession with one ginger witch. He'd instructed his informants to keep away until he contacted them in his own time, and had removed the physical signs of his fascination, not that there were many. He was a Slytherin after all, and he had been taught from a young age not to shit where he ate or laid his head.

Most of his items - Quidditch jerseys won from charity auctions, a lock of her hair, spare bits of parchment from their time at Hogwarts, empty perfume bottles - were already kept in a safe house that was under a false name, which had no ties with his own. He went there on occasion, always taking a circuitous route, and never the same one twice, to look at his spoils in the hopes that they could hold him over until he could possess her. It never seemed to slake his lust for her, rather it drove the flames of his infatuation higher, made them burn all the brighter.

And now, here he was, on the cusp of fulfilling all his wildest fantasies. She was close, he could feel it in his very bones as he walked down the beach. With each step, he began to lose faith in his plan. Honestly, what were the odds that they would both be on the same island at the same time? Who was he kidding, she was going to see right through his lies and that would be it. It would be over before it even began, and it was all his fault. But he couldn't stand the idea of giving her time, thereby allowing some other bloke to swoop in and grab her while he sat on the side _again_ , just because he was trying to allow her a little time. She could mourn her lost relationship in his arms. He could be generous.

His informant had told him her bungalow was on the far side of the island, away from the Muggles and behind basic repelling wards, which he knew would be no problem for him to dismantle or modify if he had to. He had honestly spent more time worrying about what he was going to wear when she first saw him than he had on the wards. He wanted everything to be perfect.

He felt the magic of the wards wash over him as he passed through, but nothing catastrophic happened, so he assumed they must just be in place to keep the Muggles out. He could see the little shack up ahead, but there was no sign of her yet; it seemed she was either inside or out about on the island. Fuck, he hadn't planned for this. It would be suspicious if he came by the bungalow too many times, and he had sloppily assumed that one time was all it would take.

Panic began to wash over him, but he stuck to his course, keeping his chin high as he walked past the front of the ramshackle building. He knew the accommodations inside were as luxurious as his own and had been hoping to be able to see for himself, but it seemed that wasn't in the cards for the day.

Just when he was certain that his efforts for the day were going to be for naught, he heard it, almost out of earshot.

"Zabini, is that you?"

A feral, wolfish grin stole over his features, but he tucked it away before he turned around to face her.

"Weasley," he said, inclining his head as his elf had taught him. "How nice it is to see you. I must say, the tropics seem to agree with you; you look almost good enough to eat."

Her tanned face flushed at the compliment, but she remained unaware of exactly how literally he had meant it as she invited him in for a drink.

He'd always preferred to enjoy his meals with an ice cold Scotch, but water would have to do; he was close enough to taste her, and taste her he would.

Author's Note:

Thanks to my massively last minute beta, justcourbeau! You are a special kind of wonderful.


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